


Abandon or Not at All

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Baking, Domestic, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones shouldn't bake when he's angry. Luckily, Jim is around to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon or Not at All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The almighty crash from the direction of the kitchen is the first sign that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.   
  
It’s directly followed by an inventive string of cursing and another sound that closely resembles the noise a foot makes when it comes into violent contact with a wall.   
  
“Bones?”  
  
“ _MOTHERFUCKER_.” Something else hits the floor with a sharp clang and Bones makes a wounded noise.   
  
Jim steps barefoot into the doorway of the kitchen and finds Bones coated with flour and sticky with dough, his hair frosted whimsically with a delicate layer of white dust. He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen with a spoon in one hand and a cookie sheet at his feet, unbaked balls of dough spiralling out from the blast radius of the dropped pan and lying on the floor like tiny stricken bodies.   
  
“My biscuits,” says Bones. “God- _fucking_ -dammit!” He stares wide-eyed down at the floor for a moment like he can’t believe what’s just happened and then he whips the spoon across the room, bouncing it off the wall and into the sink, before whirling on Jim. “Dammit, Jim, this is  _your_  fault!”  
  
“How is it my fault?” demands Jim. He gestures to his wet hair and his general state of semi-clothedness. “I was in the shower!”  
  
“I don’t know,” snaps Bones, his eyebrows furrowing together. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is caught in a deep scowl and the wildness in his eyes seems to indicate he’s caught in the throes of a bad mood. “It just is. Disasters like this can usually be traced back to you somehow.”  
  
“I’m offended,” says Jim, not offended at all. “What the hell is going on? It’s like a bomb went off in here. A bomb filled with flour and yeast. Is that a—did you—how did  _that_  happen?”  
  
He points to another cookie sheet on the counter which contains twelve objects that have the size, colour, and consistency of hockey pucks.   
  
Bones pulls a sour face. “I set the timer wrong. And I was trying to make another batch of dough while they were in the oven.”  
  
“They’re completely carbonized,” says Jim in awe, touching one of the little flat pucks. It crumbles into powder. “Holy crap, Bones. Get out of here before you hurt yourself.”  
  
“I just wanted some goddamn biscuits,” protests Bones, sounding hurt. “Some goddamn comfort food after a truly appalling day, but my mama always said never to cook when you’re angry or out of sorts and dammit, she was right. Ain’t a single thing in here I haven’t dropped or broken and now I’ve ruined two batches of biscuits.”

“Have you got a recipe?”  
  
“It’s on the counter, by the burnt ones,” says Bones, sounding sullenly defeated.   
  
“Go,” says Jim, picking up the little scrap of yellowed paper that’s crumbling around the edges and is covered in specks of petrified dough. “Get out. Go take a shower and don’t come back for—” He consults the recipe. “At least thirty minutes.”  
  
Jim’s expecting a fight, because, let’s face it, this is  _Bones_  he’s dealing with, but Bones just sighs, delivers one last half-hearted kick to the wall, and shuffles out of the kitchen, a cloud of flour particles trailing after him like an aura.   
  
And then Jim turns his attention to the recipe and the piles of dirty dishes and cooking paraphernalia littered around the small room. Jim’s okay with cooking. He can throw meat and vegetables into a wok and come out the other side with a decent stirfry. He almost never fucks up eggs anymore, and he can work a barbeque decently well. His mother used to get him to help her measure out ingredients when she made cookies or cakes.   
  
So even though he’s never made buttermilk biscuits before, he follows the recipe exactly, never deviating like he might do with cooking, sifting and measuring and mixing and finally rolling out the dough. He dips the biscuit cutter in some flour, cuts out twelve little circles of dough, careful not to twist the biscuit cutter just like the recipe says (accompanied by very serious exclamation makes), and then he slides the tray into the oven and tries not to hunch like a vulture in front of the oven door to see if they successfully rise.   
  
Bones comes back in as Jim is tugging the sheet of biscuits from the hot oven, his hair damp and cleansed of ingredients, the stooped set to his shoulders that characterizes his stress level having eased a bit.   
  
“Smells good,” he comments, coming over to eye the golden-brown biscuits with a certain measure of amazement. “They look just right.”  
  
“Let’s see how they taste,” says Jim, pressing a kiss to Bones’s temple as he gets butter from the fridge.   
  
The answer is  _pretty damn good_ , all things considered.   
  
Bones makes a happy noise as he pulls a biscuit into two equal pieces and then spreads melting butter over the pillowy centres. When the proportion of butter to biscuit is just right, he takes a huge bite and then sighs audibly, the last bits of tension in his face smoothing out as he chews.  
  
“Thanks, Jim,” he mumbles.  
  
Jim grins. “Any time.”


End file.
